What comments on 'Celtic Mother, Winter's Crone' poem?
In the time of dead leaves,
when wide-eyed things
frowned at sound,
and snow fell through fog,
a red berry circlet
crowned her hair.

When hunger stilled infants
and frost shrouded ancients,
wrinkled laughter dappled
forests, glades, fens.
Her talons clawed
life through death,
veil through veil.

Mother. Hag. Virgin whore.
Giver, taker, wise before
gods' birth.

In the time of black robes,
when men killed
for one mouth of meat,
she walked naked
on frozen fields,
and the earth
shuddered
its young
upwards.

Mother. Midwife. Woman.
She was breathtaking.

elysabeth faslund

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